


should i stay or should i go

by LydiaOfNarnia



Category: Band of Brothers
Genre: Feelings Realization, M/M, Sickfic, liebgott can be a nice person sometimes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-06
Updated: 2017-08-06
Packaged: 2018-12-11 23:17:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,276
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11724648
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LydiaOfNarnia/pseuds/LydiaOfNarnia
Summary: Joe has no idea how he got in this situation -- all dressed up in the middle of a black-tie event with a sick-as-a-dog David Webster hanging off of his arm.He's starting to think he'll just do anything for Web, and it's kind of pissing him off.





	should i stay or should i go

**Author's Note:**

> because caring!lieb is very important to me
> 
> warning for a non-explicit vomiting scene near the middle of the story!
> 
> Of course, the characters in this fic are based off of their fictional portrayals from the miniseries Band of Brothers, and I mean no disrespect to the real-life veterans!
> 
> Find me on tumblr at [renelemaires](http://renelemaires.tumblr.com/)!

Joe has no idea how he ended up here – bound up tight in some penguin suit, trying not to be strangled by his own tie while he forces out pleasant conversation with a bunch of people three times his age who have more money than he’ll ever see in a lifetime.

Joe hates formal gatherings. He’s never been to a gala before – hell, until two nights ago he was sure a gala was some weird rich people cocktail, not a place they actually went. He’s not sure how he agreed to be dragged to this thing in the first place, but looking back it all comes down to Webster. Stupid Webster, with his baby blue eyes and his pouty lips and his beseeching claim of, _“Just a few hours, Joe, please, I need to bring someone or else my parents will be on my case about not having a date.”_

Joe doesn’t know why Webster asked him. They’re not exactly best friends – most of the time they’re at each other’s throats – and Joe delights in the knowledge that he gets under Webster’s skin as much as the other man gets under his. Joe is a fish out of water at any fancy affair. Compared to another one of their mutual friends like Luz (life of the party), Shifty (polite and charming to a fault), or hell, even Nixon (fellow member of the My House Has A Solid Gold Swimming Pool club) Joe seems like the worst choice for a plus-one.  
  
Nevertheless, they both made it very clear that this is not a date. Webster is bringing Joe because he needed to bring somebody, and a friend seemed inconspicuous enough. Joe agreed to go because of the free food. That’s it. Webster’s puppy dog eyes had nothing to do with it.  
  
Now, however, he looks around the room and realizes just how out of place he is. Even if he doesn’t look it – he can clean up well, if Webster’s astonished expression from earlier this evening tells him anything – he doesn’t belong here. He has nothing in common with eighty year old billionaires and heiresses wearing more frown lines than jewels. He’s a barber from San Francisco hobnobbing with the New York elite. The very idea is ridiculous, but it isn’t until Joe looks down at his hand that he realizes how bizarre this night has gotten.  
  
He’s holding a champagne flute.  
  
He’s never had champagne in his goddamn life.  
  
That’s the straw that breaks his back. He can’t spend one more minute in this room with these insipid rich people. He’s done his good deed for the month – now it’s time to find Web and go home.  
  
Finding Web proves to be more of a challenge than it’s worth. He’s nowhere in sight – not at the buffet table, not in any of the buzzing groups of wealthy people, not even holed up in the library at the end of the hall. At a loss, Joe eventually resorts to wandering. He moves through the reception room, past orchestras and waiters bearing silver trays, and makes a beeline for the nearest exit – the doors which lead out to the garden.  
  
Out in the fresh air and away from the stuffiness of inside, he pauses and allows himself to draw a relieved breath. Web is gonna owe him after this. He’s not sure what favors he’ll make him fulfil, but it’s going to be something satisfying –  
  
Without knowing why, his gaze is drawn to the end of a long garden pathway, where a bench sits in front of a bush of white roses. In the moonlight, he is just able to make out a figure in black, hunched over with his head in his hands.  
  
That can never mean anything good. Seeing someone in the position is a bad sign at the parties Joe frequents, and generally means someone has gotten too drunk for their own good or is having a really awful night. At an event like this, such a sorry sight sticks out like a sore thumb. Joe finds himself walking over before he realizes what he’s doing.  
  
“Hey! You okay?”  
  
The figure raises his head, and Joe is surprised to be met with bright blue eyes fixed in a very pale face.  
  
“Joe,” says Webster, voice sounding faint. “You’re here.”  
  
Joe takes a step closer to Webster, and stops in his tracks. He cannot restrain the murmur of “Jesus,” that slips past his lips, but it’s justified. Webster is dripping with sweat; it lines his face, making his skin glisten. Instead of his usual fair complexion, Webster looks pallid and haggard. His body is wracked by small shivers, and he is panting through an open mouth.  
  
What’s most alarming are his eyes – Webster’s eyes, usually so sharp and thoughtful, are now glassy and dull.  
  
It couldn’t be more obvious that something is wrong. Joe takes a few more steps closer before hunching down in front of Webster, lowering himself to look the other man in the face. “Yeah, I’m here,” he says, placing a hand on Webster’s shoulder. He can feel heat radiating even through his suit jacket – Webster is like a furnace. “You invited me, remember?”  
  
Webster’s head bobs, hanging low like a drooping flower. “Yeah, I remember that. Sorry. I left you. Just needed some air, I think.”  
  
“You need a lot more than that, Web,” Joe sighs. Unconsciously or not, Webster is leaning into his touch, and he looks close to toppling over. “C'mon, let’s get you home, okay?”  
  
Webster gives a blearily humm, blank gaze drifting towards the ground. “Yeah. Alright.”  
  
It takes a lot of effort to get Webster on his feet. He’s wobbling like he’s ready to go down at any minutes, and his fingers dig into the front of Joe’s suit as he clings to steady himself. Joe has to force Webster to put weight on his shaky legs, otherwise he’d be carrying him entirely.  
  
“Okay,” he huffs, turning back to the reception room. “C'mon Web, let’s take you home.”  
  
“No –” Webster’s heels dig in, and he points in the other direction with a fervent shake of his head. “I can’t… can’t let anyone see me. There’s another way. I remember, it’s down here.”  
  
Typical Web – self conscious at the worst times, and a know-it-all on top of that. Joe grunts as their weight shifts, but he obligingly hauls Webster in the other direction.

As a small mercy, the car they arrived in is still waiting outside to bring them back. Though the driver had expected them back hours later, Joe waves him down and gestures to bring the car around (being driven around is the strangest thing in the world for someone who’s made a living driving other people). In the meantime, he just keeps Webster on his feet and holds him steady. The ill man seems very content to slump against his side.

By the time Joe shoves him into the backseat of the limo and slides in after him, Webster’s fever chills have taken on new enthusiasm. He’s shivering like he’s in the Arctic; but even as the car pulls away from the gala, he has the strength to bury his head in his hands and moan.  
  
“I’m sick, aren’t I?” he murmurs, sounding pitiful. Joe resists the urge to roll his eyes and praise his deductive skills. “I ruined the entire night. My parents will be upset…”  
  
“Your parents will deal with it,” Joe retorts. “You’ve got a fever, Web. It ain’t your fault.”  
  
Webster lets out a sad little “hmm”, and slumps against Joe’s side. The movement isn’t expected; Joe goes stiff, staring with wide eyes as the feverish man pillows the side of his face against Joe’s chest and leans most of his weight against him. “It’s cold,“ Webster mutters. Another shiver wracks his frame, causing his teeth to chatter.  


Joe might not be Webster’s best friend, but he’s not a monster. He sighs, wrapping an arm around the sick man’s shoulders and pulling him closer. "C'mere.”  


For a while they just stay like that – Webster limp against Joe, while Joe bears his weight with quiet worry. Seeing Webster like this is _wrong._ So listless, so weak, so… vulnerable. It casts a sour taste in Joe’s throat, and he isn’t sure which instinct is stronger – the one telling him to protect Web or the one that wants to leave him alone and see him only when he’s gotten better.

He knows what he’s going to do. He cares about Webster, and like it or not, the sick man is his responsibility. Joe isn’t going to leave him alone.

They’re halfway to Webster’s house when he suddenly shifts against Joe, letting out a small huff. When Joe looks down, he realizes Webster has one hand wrapped around his stomach. The other is straying to his mouth; his face has grown even paler.

“Joe… I think…”

Joe would know these signs anywhere, but he clings to ignorance anyway. “What’s the matter?” he asks, running his hand up and down Webster’s shoulder in a way he hopes is soothing. It does little to help; Webster curls into him more, muscles tense, as his bloodless lips purse.

“Feels like I might be sick,” he murmurs pitifully.

That’s _exactly_ what they need right now. Joe tries not to groan. "Jesus. Okay,” he says, leaning forward to tap on the limo’s divider. “Hey, you mind pulling over, please?” 

Joe helps Webster stumble out of the car, and does the mercy of not looking as the sick man empties his stomach by the side of the road. It lasts for too long; when he’s done, Webster tries to stand up, and immediately topples over.

“Okay,” says Joe, catching him by the shoulders to steady him. “Take it easy, Web. You’re okay. Come on, let’s get you home.”  
  
“Ohh god, I’m gonna pass out,” Webster moans, swaying. He looks dangerously close to doing just that, so Joe does the safe thing and steers him back to the car. Webster resumes his slumped position against him, and doesn’t move for the rest of the ride.

* * *

By the time they reach Webster’s house, he’s almost asleep. Joe has to shake him awake. Webster staggers out of the car, weaving and wobbling up the pathway to his front door. He almost trips when he gets there. Were Joe not lingering behind him, Webster would have gotten a face full of clumsily-planted rosebush; instead, he gets to watch Joe curse as he fumbles with the keys to Webster’s door.

No sooner have they gotten inside that Webster makes a beeline for his room. At least he doesn’t seem eager to be any more trouble tonight. Relieved, Joe makes a quick stop in the kitchen to grab a bottle of water and some Tylenol.

When he returns to Webster’s room, he is not surprised to find the sick man sprawled out in bed. He sits down next to Webster and shakes him gently, jarring him into opening his eyes once more. “Come on,” he coaxes, handing the pills to Webster. He watches until he swallows them, and makes sure he drinks some water afterwards. The last thing Web needs is to get dehydrated.

Then Webster settles back again, and Joe realizes he doesn’t know where to go from here. Leaving seems like the logical choice; he should go back to his own home. Webster took his medicine. He’ll be fine. Somehow, however, it just doesn’t seem right.

As it turns out, the choice isn’t up to him. He’s just starting to rise when a hand lashes out, catching his wrist in a surprisingly tight grip. Webster’s eyes are wide and beseeching.

"Stay. Please.”  
  
“Web –”  
  
The sick man cuts him off with a sigh and a shake of his head. “Don’t wanna be alone. I could… get sick again. Or if the fever gets too high…”

He has a point. Joe can’t leave, not when Webster is still this sick. He doesn’t get the chance to concede, however, before Webster pulls Joe’s wrist to his chest and wraps his other hand around it – demanding that he go nowhere. “Joe,” he murmurs. “I need you.”  


And that’s about the moment Joe realizes he’s head over heels in love with David Webster.

It makes sense. The adrenaline rushes he gets from their arguments can’t compare to anything else. He lets Web talk him into going to places he usually wouldn’t be caught dead in – like museums, aquariums, or black tie events. He wore a tuxedo for Web. He comforted him after he puked his guts up on the side of the road.

He’s _gone_ for Web, and he didn’t even know it.

“Ah, god,” Joe mutters, because everything has never been clearer. How the hell did he miss this? “Okay. Yeah, Web, sure. I’ll stay.”

When Webster smiles at him, his heart feels tight enough to burst out of his chest. He’s an idiot.  
  
"Hmm… thank you,” Web mutters. He’s still cuddling Joe’s hand to his sweaty chest. It doesn’t seem like he’s letting go anytime soon. “So much.”  


This isn’t the first time he’s stayed over at Web’s house, and it could definitely be under worse circumstances. Joe sighs. He and Web are going to have to have a hell of a talk when all this is over.

For now, though, Joe has one job – to look after Webster. Until he’s better, Webster can count on Joe not going anywhere. He runs his free hand over Web’s burning forehead, and fights the urge to smile as blue eyes flutter shut.

“Get some rest, Web. I’m staying right here.”  



End file.
